


to die by your side (well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine)

by bittereternity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittereternity/pseuds/bittereternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We will all be tragedies," Mycroft had murmured, "but you will be a <i>beauty </i>." The whole world is burning and Sherlock has the matches.  [john/sherlock, post-trf]</p>
            </blockquote>





	to die by your side (well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine)

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. 

\- Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell to Arms_

*

It starts with a rooftop and a phone call. It starts with John staring straight above, looking right at the sky, defying the sun to look at a small shape on the top of a tall building.  
The first thing that comes to John’s mind is: he looks so small, like he can be crushed by the palm of a hand. 

But, no. 

In the interest of full disclosure, this is not the beginning. 

And they will tell you this, too: this is not the end, either. This is nothing. It is a moment, just one other in a lifetime made of moments and it will drift away one day like everything else eventually does, like it needs to make room for something bigger, something better. It will drift away one day, it will, it will, it will but not today.

 _This_ will be the beginning, really, but they will know it too late:

John limps into the lab at St. Barts, tries to reconcile the present with glimpses of his past, of his youth, of days where smiling wasn't a chore.

There is a man leaning on the microscope. His eyes are fixed, very fixed on the eyepiece and his long, thin, slender fingers are readjusting the cover-slip on a slide smeared green. He pushes a stray curl out of his eye with the back of his hand and focuses the slide under the microscope. At the sound of their voices, he extends a hand and says, “Mike, can I borrow your phone?”

It’s phrased like a question but it’s anything but. 

This may have been a beginning, but we will never know. John hadn't been paying attention, then.

*

There was a moment, once.

There is a knock on the door at Baker Street and Sherlock looks at John, shrugs. “Chinese?” he guesses.

John opens the door, and his cane is leaning against the door. The cane which he had forgotten, without which he had traipsed all around London, without which he had felt _alive_ , is there.

He picks it up reverently, almost like it’s made of gold. When he turns back round, all Sherlock can think of are his eyes, his eyes which simultaneously seem alive and apprehensive, as if he can’t quite believe that he’s capable of any joy. His hair is mussed up and he is breathing heavily, a fine sheen of sweat has already broken on his left eyebrow. The laugh lines on his face, around his eyes are even more pronounced, and he seems to lose the ability to speak other than _look_ and _Sherlock_.

This, Sherlock thinks, might be love. 

And all at once, blood is rushing to his face and he feels hot, uncomfortably so. His knees are a little weak and his heart is _thudding_ against his chest so loudly he thinks that surely, surely John must hear. But, no, John is too distracted, too happy, too close to Sherlock for his comfort.

He dips his head just a little and then John’s face is right there, his lips are right there and there’s not more than a centimeter of distance between them. Sherlock closes his eyes and he is so close to perfection, so close –

“Come on, Sherlock!” John laughs and turns around to climb up the stairs.

*

He is at the rooftop, Moriarty inches away from pulling a trigger and ending his life.

 _Your friends will die if you don't._ As far as business transactions go, this one is pretty permanent.

He closes his eyes briefly and thinks _Mycroft_ , imagines him sitting alone at his table at the Diogenes, slowly sipping a glass of Scotch and staring straight ahead at the newspaper in front of him without reading. He thinks of Mycroft’s umbrella, of the whole world – except this, always except this – grasped inside his palm, the small quirk of his lips as if he’s forgotten how to smile. Once, Mycroft had stood next to him in a morgue and said _all hearts break_ and if only, if only – 

Mycroft, he doesn’t mention.

He thinks of Mrs. Hudson, next, sitting on her kitchen stool and making perfect little cookies for her tenants. Any moment now, she will be taking out the last batch from the oven, and then she will disregard her hip, climb up the stairs, knock on their door and make sure he eats something at least.

He thinks of Lestrade, thinks of him long back when he was still a junkie and Lestrade was still an Inspector and Lestrade had vouched for him, risked his career and gotten him a life. He remembers shivering in Lestrade’s arms through the first, second, third withdrawals and waking up to files filled with cold cases and a post-it stuck on the top of the pile: _I’m proud of you_. He wishes the sentiment were still true, finds himself surprised at his ability to wish at all.

He thinks of John last. 

He thinks of anything and everything about John, thinks about his jumpers and his shoes and his habit of wearing a crooked tie. But, mostly, he thinks of a filled refrigerator, of bottles of milk and the smell of fresh cooking, of John’s laughter echoing into his room, of the gun under his pillow and the remnants of nightmares tangled in his sheets and how his heart would beat faster just at John, _john, john_.

He’s ready to agree to everything, then, but Moriarty has already pulled the trigger.

*

Sherlock is all of twenty-five and in a private institution in the outskirts of London. Personal health problem, his file says, but the only problem is the copious amounts of cocaine leaving his body in tears, sweat and vomit.

He will not remember any of this, but the most profound of our moments stem from the deepest of desperation, anyway.

“We will all be tragedies,” Mycroft had told him when he had come to visit, and in that moment, he hadn't been a suit and a click away from world domination. He had looked just like a man, any man buried under the hefty expectations of the world. In that moment, he had looked utterly tired.

He had stroked Sherlock’s hair as he lay there on a stark bed in a sterile room hooked up to a machine, body still shaking from the aftershocks of the latest –final? This needs to be final – withdrawal. 

“We will all be tragedies,” Mycroft had murmured, “but you will be a _beauty_.”

*

Sherlock things of how easy it would be for John to forget him. 

He stands behind a tree in his own graveyard and thinks that the world would take care of John, because John is strength and kindness and love and he has risen up, again and again and again. 

_You are the most human human being I’ve ever met_ , John says, and surely, surely all that wetness on his face is just rain. He’s determined not to let the world break John Watson, because John deserves better than him, better than everyone else combined, better than any semblance of bliss he can ever scrape up to offer.

John deserves so, so much better but sometimes, Sherlock’s chest _aches_. 

*

Sherlock is in London, in Paris, in New Mexico, in Mumbai.

Mycroft wires money to anonymous Swiss account, emails files of national security over practically indecipherable codes and tries very hard to breathe. Snipers are positioned all around him like all the world is his arena, and he moves forward, breaks a wrist and fractures his nose and punches strangers right in the stomach. He falls down and bleeds on the ground and gets back up.

There is a gas explosion in a building in Rome.

A ceiling falls down and kills ten people in Manchester.

A shooter creates orphans in Dhaka and Tokyo is filled with sick children, sick adults and widespread murmurs of bioterrorism. 

A man kills and a woman kills and everyone is dying and there is always blood everywhere, too much of it.

The whole world is burning and Sherlock has the matches. 

*

Sherlock is in Prague, in Amsterdam, in Nantes. 

He is somewhere outside Somme, in a village where the lights are out by nine and the people are too old. Conversations begin with: _remember when_ and _that one time,_ but all Sherlock thinks is that they’re _real_ , their stories, their conversations, and so he listens. 

“Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John had asked, had given him a look and an amused shake of his head. There had been a case, Sherlock remembers this. There had always been a case and he had always been one step ahead of the game, always with one foot right out of the door, one hand always out to hail a taxi. He had looked back –only sometimes, dammit, not always- and John had been there. John had been smiling, laughing, shaking his head, stealing his heart. 

Back at Baker Street, back in the before, Sherlock had curled up on the sofa and given John a look. “Don’t be _tedious_ , John.”

He thinks he would listen now. He would listen to John talking about the clinic, about the kid with snot in his hair, about the chip-and-pin machine at Tesco. He would listen because that would mean that John would be real, that he would turn back and John will be there. 

There’s only a group of aged men in the bar where he sits. One of them gets up to order another round of beer for the table. He returns back to the table and there is another round of memories, and someone laughs again.

This is the happiest he’s been in over a year.

*

Colonel Sebastian Moran comes to him when he’s sitting in a café in Lausanne. He’s sitting outside, wearing a coat that vaguely smells of mothballs but Mycroft is not _God_ , not really. A copy of Fowles is in his hand, and he’s turning the pages without reading the words. 

He registers the vague sound of shoes moving on the carpeted floor, and looks up when the feet stop right next to him. Colonel Sebastian Moran has aged, he thinks, in a way that has nothing to do with age. He looks almost exactly like the photo on his file that Mycroft had emailed him, but the lines on his forehead are more pronounced, his lips look parched and a gash runs through his left cheekbone. Through his sleeve, Sherlock can just about glimpse the edges of a bandage wrapped around his wrist. 

Colonel Moran takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the table. He pulls out the chair opposite Sherlock and sits, places his hands together on the table as if he’s intending to pray.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he says. 

Sherlock can’t help but think that he really means to say _fuck you_. 

*

This is a secret.

It isn’t, really. This isn’t a secret because no records of this conversation ever existed. For all intents and purposes, this conversation doesn’t happen. Except, full disclosure, remember?

“One of us has to die,” Sherlock states, still in that café in Lausanne, still sitting opposite Sebastian Moran. 

Moran nods. “If I die, will I be your first?” he says carefully, a little while later. 

Sherlock inhales a sharp breath and laughs. “I was saving myself for the best,” he says. His tone is only half-mocking. 

“Who was yours?” he finally asks. 

Moran leans back a little and spreads his hands. “It was back in Afghanistan. We had just received news of an attack on our base camp and I was leading one of the teams at the front line. Several rounds were fired on both sides and most of the enemy had retreated. I had just given command to scour the area for any remaining casualties when I saw him. He had hidden behind a few bags of cement from a construction area nearby and he had a rifle trained on me. By the time he saw me noticing his presence, there was no way out other than killing him. It was a direct shot. I aimed, and fired.”

Sherlock looks at him, but Moran doesn’t seem to be making any attempt to lie. _Predictable_ , he does not say out loud. 

They both get up simultaneously and Sherlock slaps down a twenty on the table. 

He doesn't speak until they walk out of the café doors and breathe in the chill in the air. Sherlock pulls his coat a little tighter around himself and breathes in the air. 

“Who was your first, after?” he asks again, and his voice is a little vague but neither of them have any trouble understanding who it is that Sherlock is referring to.

Moran frowns, as if there might be a hidden device on Sherlock recording their conversation, and then seems to remember that this won’t matter either. 

“I don’t…” he frowns. What he means is: _there were too many, too soon, all together_ but Sherlock understands.

“Where will you go if you actually end up doing this?” Moran asks. It’s only fair, it’s been his turn a long time.

Sherlock shrugs. _Home_ is almost on his lips, but when he closes his eyes, he doesn’t recognize what he sees. 

“I have a brother,” he says, finally. Moran laughs, and this time it’s a true sound. 

“Indeed. That isn't what I meant, though.” 

Sherlock shrugs again. This conversation isn't doing him any favors, and he feels dangerously like he’s teetering on a cliff. 

“I loved him, once, I think,” Moran suddenly says, and this, Sherlock isn’t expecting, this causes him to whip around and stare. “He made me feel _alive_ , Sherlock,” he continues, voice earnest and just the littlest bit broken. “I marathoned the world with him, and it still felt like a stroll. We would make up our own questions and live our own answers. And then we went out and set fire to the streets and we would come back so alive, so present. And then, and then-“ Moran trails off suddenly, like this of all things is too personal.

“Do you think,” Sherlock asks, and if his voice is trembling just the littlest bit, Moran doesn’t mention it. “Do you think he loved you back?”

Moran opens his mouth to answer and suddenly Sherlock feels afraid.

“I think he tried his best,” he finally answers, and his voice is kind without a hint of condescension, and Sherlock feels an unfamiliar surge of gratefulness for that. 

“Did he?” Sherlock asks. 

Moran sighs again, as if he’s learned too little things in too short a time. “I have to believe he did,” he says finally, and wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as if they _mean_ something to each other, as if they have somewhere to go. 

This could be a love story, almost.

*

Ten minutes later, they’re at a lake and it’s early evening. The sun lashes about in orange, angry streaks in the sky and they face each other. 

Moran raises a gun. Sherlock raises one too, but he is a fraction of a fraction of a second too late in doing so.

“Poor little Sherlock,” Moran taunts, and did that last conversation really happen? “Poor little Sherlock, never having the courage to press a trigger, never having the courage to step up and _love_ , never having the courage to tell him you--”

He does not, cannot finish the sentence. A shot is fired.

*

Remember, this is not the end, although this might well be. 

But no, this is just another moment. One lonely, almost insignificant moment in a cluster of moments and maybe, this moment will never be any special; will never be of any value. Maybe this moment will just drift by except:

A shot is fired at point-blank range. One person falls to the ground while the other remains standing.

There is a shot and an almost guilty man is killed. The point is: _killed_ , not guilty.

Sherlock walks away.

*

He comes back to London and London smiles. 

It’s a Saturday in July, and the sun is shining much too brightly and its too hot for even leaves to rustle. There are people everywhere, people in the sun with their coats off and hair up, and-

He still remembers London like the back of the hand and every step he takes is _John._

He reaches Baker Street at midday, and the cabbie doesn’t even bat a lash, looks at him like he’s just another person, like he’s alive and breathing and therefore insignificant.  
He raises a hand and knocks on the door, even though Mycroft is still a step ahead, and there is an unmarked envelope with, presumably, the key hidden just underneath the doormat. His head feels like it might split open, his feet wobble and there’s a heavy feeling in his chest like he can’t breathe. This last thing does not compute, because he hadn't had any problems breathing yesterday, and he hadn’t received any new trauma in weeks. 

The steps on the staircase go _thump, thump, thump,_ and this isn’t Mrs. Hudson because she never wore shoes with such dull soles and then the door swings open and it’s _John._

There’s a moment here, too. A moment of silence and Sherlock can’t talk, won’t talk or move or do anything to spoil the sanctity of all this. John’s hair is still blond, his eyes are still blue, he is still alive and breathing and bringing the world to its knees with his smiles.

John takes a step forward. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he breathes, and it’s a melody. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Vague ideas for this fic had been stewing in my hard drive for quite a while, but I finally had the courage (and time) to sit through and get it done. It's the first Sherlock fic I've had the courage to post, so I would appreciate all sorts of feedback and constructive criticism!  
> The title is from the song "There is a light that never goes out" by The Smiths.


End file.
